Monday Morning
by rufeepeach
Summary: Belle calls Gold up at work, and considerably brightens his morning. With phonesex.
1. Chapter 1

He hated working mornings.

Really, really hated it.

No one would have expected him to be a morning person. Mr Gold was a man who enjoyed the dark, and all the things one could do when shrouded in it that the light would expose. Bright blaring sunshine one of his favourite things in the world, and morning tended to include in abundance.

Plus, morning was a time when Storybrooke's elected officials tended to enjoy bothering him. Evenings were for shady deals and desperate souls, but morning was for propriety and order.

He didn't enjoy sitting behind his desk at nine-thirty am, on his own, waiting for Emma or Regina to come marching in accusing him of things.

But morning was also when people were most likely to come in and browse, and find something they wanted but couldn't explain why. It was when those who would become desperate when the sun set and the wind turned cold arrived to first dip their toes in the water

So there he sat, in deep and heavy silence.

He almost jumped out of his skin when his phone vibrated. Gold wasn't a great lover of technology, all those sparks and wires and no life in any part of it. Magic, although less predictable and more painful than electricity, at least held some autonomy, some warmth.

But he needed to be able to be contacted wherever he was, so he'd bought himself the cheapest cell phone he could find.

Emma had the number, for Miss Blanchard's case, and so did Regina. There was only one other person who had it, and he doubted she'd be texting him at nine-thirty am.

So it was with a sinking heart that Gold flipped open the cover, and found the button to open the message.

"_Hey, what r u doing?"_

And he had to smile, because at the end of her message Belle had included a little smiley face. He'd never admit it, because such things seemed so pointless and tacky, but it was almost cute when she did it.

Then again, most things were.

"_At work, dear_," he typed, "_waiting for new business."_

He put the phone down, tried to convince himself that that would be the end of it. She was probably in the flower shop, as bored as he, and wouldn't risk sending anything more in case her father caught her.

"_Oh, shame, I got a lie-in this morning ;)"_

He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to drop everything, and run across town to join her. The image of his Belle, lying in her childhood bedroom in her tiny pyjamas, dappled in morning sunlight, made his heart pound and his blood run south.

But he couldn't, because life was cruel and unfair.

They'd managed to keep the affair a secret for this long. Moe French hated him as much as anyone in town, which was no small feat, and protected his daughter better than the Secret Service. If he discovered what Belle's 'cooking class' three times a week was actually code for…

Gold had to smirk, as a parade of images from the last month flashed through his mind.

He'd decided to teach her some basic recipes, so she could give answers if questioned.

The first time, he'd thought that carrot and rutabaga soup would be sufficiently boring and stodgy enough to get them through dinner without succumbing to temptation. He had been wrong.

He'd been as reserved as he could be, fended off her attempts to kiss him against the cabinets or kiss his neck when he showed her the spice drawer. But the phone had kept ringing every five minutes, so he'd have to leave her alone, and when he'd return to the kitchen he always found Belle stood there, innocent as anything, but wearing one less piece of clothing.

Finally he'd hung up on Emma and come back to find his Belle in nothing but her ridiculously frilly apron and white high-heeled sandals. And a smile: Belle always smiled when she knew he'd won, even when she'd had to perform a striptease with rutabagas to do it.

He had honestly tried to teach her something, but the woman managed to be irresistibly sexy even when chopping vegetables.

He'd bent her forward over the counter and taken her right there, from behind, in the middle of his kitchen. The soup had burned, and they'd ordered in Chinese and eaten it half-naked on the sofa.

"_How did you get out of work?"_

He was encouraging her; he knew that. He could see her sexy little 'fuck-me' smirk from halfway across town.

"_Said I was 2 tired 2 wrk… l8 nights of lessons."_

The night before, he'd taught her how to bake cupcakes. And it was in no way a subtle scheme to guide them to the point where she was spread-eagled and naked on his kitchen table, and he was lapping frosting from her hot little pussy, and she was arching into him, gripping the sides of the table with both hands.

Of course that had been unintentional. Gods, the noises she'd made: somewhere between mewling and screaming. He could hear that sound every day for a year, and it would still be the hottest thing in the Universe.

Just the _memory_ was making him hard.

"_If you're so tired, then why don't you sleep?"_

Now he was just _asking_ for her to distract him. And Sydney Glass had just walked in, and was perusing the shelves, so now was not a good time to have a raging hard-on.

"_I was... bt my dream woke me up."_

He wasn't touching that one with a ten-foot barge pole. Talking to Belle when she was in this mood was like playing with fire, and now was not the best time to get scorch marks.

He successfully ignored the buzzing of his phone for a full thirty seconds before his curiosity – and libido – got the better of him.

"_We were in the forest near ur house, n u were fucking me against a tree. Come over n finish what u started."_

Another message arrived as he read: he was almost too scared to open it. Especially when he realised that she'd sent him a picture.

It was a photo of her, sat in the pink chair in her bedroom, completely stark naked. Her hair was blonde, as it had been for a while when they'd first started this whole affair and she was feeling daring, wanted to try new things. That had been an interesting month.

He'd never realised she'd taken pictures, and found himself wondering how he could get his hands on the whole lot. _After_ he got his hands on the subject of, course.

Sydney came to the desk, and Gold remained seated. He couldn't very well stand, anyway, with his hard, aching cock tenting his trousers.

He'd have to punish her for that. He pushed down a filthy smirk: _later_.

Someone was calling him, and he had a very strong suspicion he knew who it would be.

"Hey, you gonna answer that?"

"No."

"Oh." Sydney looked at him funny, and Gold quickly put on his most casual and genial smile, "Someone you don't wanna talk to?"

"Just a... child who's got my number and is trying to get herself into trouble."

_And succeeding_.

"Oh, alright." Sydney made his purchase, a small looking glass, and left quickly as Gold smothered remarks about wishes and magic mirrors.

Then he answered the phone, and went in the back.

"What _is_ the matter, dear?"

"You." He could hear the pout in Belle's voice, and wanted to bite it from her lips, "You keep ignoring me."

"I'm at work, dear, I can't just leave."

"Well I'm in my bed, and I've misplaced my underwear, and you're not here to help me find them." Her voice was indignant, but he could hear her smiling.

"Well, you know I couldn't help with that," he replied, "I disapprove of any and all clothing you possess."

"Even the Catholic schoolgirl uniform?"

His mind flashed back to the day he'd discovered that. She'd sat on his desk in the middle of the shop, legs spread wide and kicking in knee-high socks and a skirt hemmed higher than her fingertips.

He'd called her "Miss French" the whole time, and she'd giggled and then cried out as he held her down against the desk and spanked her.

He groaned, and his cock hardened still further.

She giggled, "Ah-ha! Not _everything_, then."

"What do you want, you little minx?"

"I want you to come over and fuck my brains out."

He nearly came right then and there, and he closed his eyes, calling on every shred of restraint he knew he had hidden somewhere in his brain. She was making an awfully good case for just taking a personal day and doing as she asked.

But the Frenchs lived above the shop, and Moe would probably lock Belle in her room forever if he caught them. Gold didn't want to repeat any past mistakes.

"I can't, love." He said, softly, and this time she was the one to moan.

He grinned, and took a seat in one of the old armchairs he was readying for sale: he couldn't be there in person, but perhaps there were other ways.

"What're you actually wearing?" he asked. His voice had taken a lower pitch, practically purring into her ear, all rolling 'r's and Scottish burr. He played up his accent when they were together, because he _knew_ what it did to her.

Belle hadn't expected this to actually work: she'd thought she'd send him the picture, rile him up a bit, and then he'd stop texting back and she'd go watch some TV. And wait for their next 'date', when he'd punish her for working him up at work.

"Um, your white shirt that I stole last Saturday."

"And?"

"And that's it…"

"Okay, then you're going to do exactly as I say from now on, got it?"

Oh, he _knew_ she loved it when he told her what to do.

She let out a little whimper, "Or what?"

"Or I'll hang up, and turn my phone off, and you'll have to sort yourself out." His voice was a little harsher, demanding, and she loved every second of it.

"Okay…" she breathed, "what do you want me to do?"

He laughed, and it came out lower and huskier than usual. The sound vibrated through her, right to her aching centre. "First, I want you to slide a hand down under the shirt, and run your fingers over one nipple."

She swallowed, and did as she was told, moving her fingertips under the collar and down to her breast, brushing over one already-sensitised tip. She gasped, played it up a little, and smiled when she heard his quick little intake of breath.

"Good," he murmured, "Now give it a quick tug, like you know I would if I were there."

She did, and a little shock of pleasure ran through her.

"How did that feel?"

"Good…" she breathed.

"Now the other one."

She repeated the action on the other side, and shivered, her whole spine vibrating.

"What would you want me to do now?"

"Go…" she swallowed, "Go lower."

"Where to?"

She could hear the smirk in his voice, knew he was going to make her say it, "My… my pussy…"

"Yes…" he groaned the word into the phone, and she could just imagine him, in his shop, rubbing himself through his suit pants, talking dirty to her down his cell phone, "Put your hand there…"

Her fingers found her clit in a moment, and rubbed hard, the image in her mind too much to bear.

"Wh-what now?"

"Run your fingers around your clit… pretend it's my tongue down there, eating you out, lapping up every bit of you…"

She moaned, and followed his instructions, stroking herself with two fingers and sending mewling little cries down the phone, the sensation of her own touch on her clit and his deep, urgent, commanding voice in her ear sending pleasure rocketing through her.

"Now… stop." He commanded, and she did. She breathed hard, the ache between her legs hot and urgent, and waited for his next order.

"Slide one finger down, right down, and dip it just slightly into your entrance." She swallowed hard, and moved down, found her dripping entry and slipped inside. She clenched, hard, and moaned deep in the back of her throat.

"Pretend that's my cock, teasing you, making you beg me to go all the way inside and fuck you, hard and deep."

"Ah!" she held herself still, knew he'd hear if she disobeyed and would hang up, leaving her lost without his voice in her ear to spur her on.

"Do you want that, Belle? Do you want me to take you right now?" his tone was rough, demanding, and the most delicious thing she'd ever heard.

"Yes… oh, God, please yes…"

"Then slide your finger up, deep inside… yeah, that's right, now add a second one…"

She slid her middle and index fingers inside herself, felt her walls clench hard around her knuckles, and cried out into the phone, "Ahh!".

"Now fuck yourself, Belle… go on…"

She moved her thumb up, and rubbed her clit hard as she rode her own hand, hitting the spot deep inside her that he'd discovered, pretending it was him, hard and hot inside, driving her closer and closer…

"Come for me, Belle," he coaxed, and she did, clenching hard around her fingers, hips arching off the bed. She cried out, high and keening, and breathed hard as she relaxed, coming down off her high with a sleepy little smile.

"Fuck." She murmured.

"About sums it up…" he replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

"I'll… ah… I'll let you get back to business, now."

"Thank you, dear. I'll see you tonight."

"We're not supposed to meet until Wednesday…"

"I need to punish you for working me up in the middle of the day. I'll see you at nine."

Then he hung up, and Belle shivered in anticipation. It would take a lot to sneak out that night, but Gold always made it worth her while.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Everyone demanded a second chapter, and so here it is: Monday Afternoon! Enjoy!_

* * *

Her father is downstairs in the shop.

Belle is upstairs, in the kitchen, pouring tea for a man with a subtle little smirk and gleaming eyes.

And this shouldn't be a turn-on. Oh, it really, really shouldn't. But Gold had promised he would get his revenge for her attack that morning, and he'd said it in that low, rough, determined voice he only used when he wanted something from her.

He'd said 'tonight'; she'd expected them to meet in their special place, outside the library, and vanish together into the night.

His house is safe: no one could catch them there.

But here? In her home, with her father in the shop downstairs sweating bullets because the landlord was upstairs? This is the _opposite_ of safe.

Her dad doesn't like her dating. She is twenty-five years old, a grown adult, so really she shouldn't have to act like a rebellious teenager. But since she broke off her engagement to George Gastbury – the most boring man in existence and her father's old apprentice – he doesn't approve of her dating.

Said it was cheap, that people would talk.

She leans over the table a little far to reach the teapot, allows her tartan skirt to ride up the back of her thighs. She's giving Gold an eyeful, and she knows it, and he's insane if he thinks she'll stop anytime soon.

"Careful, dear," he murmurs, as she sits back and pours his tea. His hand is on her bare thigh under the table, warm and higher than is strictly appropriate.

"Of what?" she asks, casually, as if they're talking about the weather.

"Your father is right downstairs, perhaps you should _behave_?"

She shrugs, shakes her head, and he moves his hand a little higher, fingertips reaching the hem of her tiny kilt. She sees his raised eyebrow when he discovers her distinct lack of underwear. She had warned him earlier that they had been misplaced… it isn't her fault that her knickers all go mysteriously missing when he decides to drop by.

They're useless anyway, when he's looking at her like that, all dark eyes and hunger.

"Perhaps you should…" she replies.

"Perhaps…" he's leaned in close, so his lips are right by her ear, and she giggles. She must have done quite a number on him this morning, if he's this forward this fast.

Usually they talk for a while; usually she makes the first real move.

But no, he's breathing into her ear, his tongue darting out to trace the shell, light and deft, making her squirm and shake in her seat. She shivers hard when he suddenly takes her earlobe between his teeth, and bites lightly, right as his fingers reach her centre, tease her through the rough plaid fabric…

Then the bastard sits back, and smiles like the devil, and oh she's going to _kill_ him.

Right when she's done fucking him.

Yes. The fucking must come first.

She sees his game, of course she does. She drove him crazy in an inappropriate place, when he couldn't do anything about it, so now he's going to pay her back in kind.

But she's better at this than he is, she proved that this morning, and so she stands and moves the chair aside so she's right in front of him, looks down at him and bites her lip. She leans down, her hands on either side of his face, and kisses him, hard and deep, nipping his lips with sharp teeth and stroking his tongue with hers in that way she knows shuts off power to his brain.

His hands on her waist haul her down onto his lap, so she's straddling him on the kitchen chair, and she smiles in victory as she squirms against him, rubbing her centre against his growing hard-on.

But then, just as she's ready to start work on his flies and finish this here and now, he suddenly breaks their kiss and smiles up at her.

That's not his dazed, hopelessly turned-on smile.

That's not his soft, tender smile, either.

That's his 'you don't know what you're dealing with, little girl' smile. The one he wore the night he tied her up with the curtains of his four-poster bed and teased her for hours. The one he wears when he has a plan.

She gulps, and wonders what she's started.

Then mentally shrugs, figuring that as long as his plan involves him, her and a distinct absence of clothing, all is well with the world.

He sets her back on her feet in front of him, and rises with her so they're face-to-face once more. "I thought you said we needed to be careful," she whispers.

"You started this, dearie, not I," he moves his head so his lips are back by her ear, and her eyes flutter closed at the sensation of his breath on her skin, "So how far are you willing to go?"

He is asking permission. This man who the whole town believes to be a villain, who terrifies her father and promised – mere hours ago – to punish her for her wicked ways, still asks for permission before he takes it any further.

And her heart swells, because it's hard not to fall in love with him when he looks so soft.

"As far as you'll take me." She whispers back, and presses a kiss to his jaw, and that's all the permission he needs. His grin turns dark, determined, as he kisses her hard on the mouth and then spins her around.

She giggles, but it turns to a soft moan as his lips find the back of her neck, sucking and nibbling on her pulse point. His hands grip her hips, fingers digging in, holding her flush against him so she can feel his growing erection against her ass.

Then his lips leave her neck, and trail a line of hard little kisses up her jaw. His voice is a harsh whisper in her ear "Bend over."

She trembles, but does as she's told.

"Good girl…" he praises, as she puts on hand on either side of the tea tray, bracing herself, fingers wrapped around the edge of the table.

One hand leaves her hip and trails downwards, to the hem of her skirt. She sighs when she feels them brush against the skin of her upper thigh, as he flips the hem up, so the skirt lies across her back and she is exposed to him.

With just one finger, he strokes down the curve of her ass and down, until he finds her bare and dripping pussy. He traces her clit in maddening little circles, making her whimper and buck into him, "You deserve to be punished, wicked little thing," he murmurs, and she shivers, "Calling me at work, leaving me hard and wanting you. Is that what you want, Belle, for me to punish you?"

She can't answer; she just grinds down against his hand and hopes he gets the message.

She squeals when he pinches her clit hard between thumb and forefinger, "I asked you a question."

"Yes!"

"Okay then," she can hear the smile in his voice, and he doubles his efforts, two fingers rubbing against her hard until she's gasping and moaning. But then the bastard stops. "Do you want more?"

"Yes," she looks up at him over her shoulder and nods, not trying to hide the pleading tone in her voice.

"How much more?"

"Please, please take me…"

He laughs, but it's low and husky, betraying some of the desperation she knows they share, "Well, how can I resist a 'please'?" he lets go of her, and for just a second she's alone, and then he's right back there, naked and hard and insistent, pushing against her throbbing entrance.

For a moment, she believes he's going to do it here, and fuck her on the kitchen table, over the tea things.

Then he's hauling her upright, chuckling into the back of her neck, and she's wondering how much longer she has to wait before she can murder him.

"Not here, love," he murmurs against her lips, "Anyone could walk in… you can be rather loud."

By 'anyone' he means her father. Admittedly, crying out 'Yes, yes, please fuck me harder!' was probably a bad idea with him within shouting distance.

"Is there a room with a lock on the door?"

Yes, there is. Beside the bathrooms, there's her father's bedroom. She tells him this, and hopes he won't be freaked out by the idea: she really needs to come, soon, and this isn't a time for him to be delicate.

He grimaces a moment, and she reaches down between them and squeezes his cock through his trousers.

That decides it.

He grabs his cane, and nods, and she leads them around the corner, past the living room and into her dad's bedroom.

She locks the door, and sprints past Gold with a wicked smile. She keeps eye contact as she unbuttons her shirt, displaying a complete absence of a bra, and bites her lip.

That was one of the ways she'd seduced him, that first day in his shop. She'd learned that biting her lip was one of the many sure-fire ways to get him to stare at her mouth, and imagine other uses for it.

There's something unspeakably naughty about this, she thinks, as he pushes her back on the double bed, fucking a man old enough to be her father in her parent's bed. It makes it feel all the more dirty, more illicit, when Gold holds her hands down and bears down on her. He lost his suit pants and boxers somewhere in transition, and so he's in just his shirt and she in her tiny little kilt.

She likes it this way: sex always seems hotter, more debauched, when clothing is only partially removed.

"This better?" she giggles, breathlessly, and he nods.

"Slightly. You still need to keep it down, though, pet."

"You like it when I'm loud," she whispers, squirming down, trying to get a little more pressure where she needs it most.

"Indeed, but while it would be _fucking fantastic_ to have you _screaming_ my name, I don't want you locked up forever by an enraged florist."

"He wouldn't… it wouldn't be as bad as that," she murmurs, a little unnerved by the tenderness, the sadness that's suddenly present in his eyes. Like she's someone else, someone older and so far away.

He looks at her like this, sometimes, when she says something completely innocuous and his eyes widen, when she slammed him back against a china cabinet and broke a teacup.

She leans up and kisses him, slowly, thoroughly, reassuring him that everything is fine and brilliant and beaming sunlight. How could it not be, when they're in bed together, and his hands are pinning her wrists, and she loves him so much that her chest feels it might explode?

She's just a plaything for him; a bright, shiny, bouncy friend with benefits. She's too young for him, and she's not a fool: this has no future. They can't even walk down the street together, for God's sake.

But he looks at her as he does now, with such soft brown eyes, such a warm and tender smile, and she can't help but hope that there's something he's not telling her. That he's found a loophole in time and space that allows her to be his lover, his partner in crime, and everything else in-between.

_A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love. _She'd read that somewhere, once, and she can't help but prove it true.

"Ready?" he whispers, and she nods, smiling like the sun, "Then say your right words…"

"Please," she moans, "Oh, Gods, please…"

He smirks, and thrusts up inside her, as hard and far as he can. She moans deep, back arching off the bed, and then cries out as he dips his head down to suck on one nipple, rolling it between his teeth so it hardens into a little point as he pounds into her, fucking her mercilessly.

He looks up in alarm at her volume, and holds himself still inside her, making her writhe and try to force him back into motion. He quickly brings her hands together so he can hold them in one of his, so he can cup the other one over her mouth.

"Now, dearie," he hisses down at her, "what did I say about noise? One more peep out of you and I'll be forced to stop. Do you understand the rules?"

She swallows and nods, and he grins, "Good girl." He starts moving, harder and faster than before, the hand moving from her mouth and down, to flick her clit in time with his movements, "Such a good girl," he grunts, "All good and wet for me, my perfect little Belle…" she nearly comes right there, from the sound of her name on his lips.

She bites her lip, trying so hard to keep from screaming his name as she feels herself careening for the edge, so close to climax she can taste it on her tongue. "Come for me, Belle," he murmurs, "Go on, come for me…"

She does, and he leans down and kisses her hard so he can swallow her screams. He releases her hands and she immediately threads her fingers through his hair, holding his mouth against his so she can kiss him messily, all teeth and tongue.

He stiffens inside her, and she can feel as he climaxes, hard, his thrusts jarring and erratic as he rides out an orgasm six hours in the making.

Finally, he collapses on top of her, and rolls them over so she's sprawled on his chest.

"Fuck…" he breathes against the top of her head, and she sighs happily, snuggling into him.

"Worth the wait?" she asks, looking up at him with a cheeky little smile.

"Always," he replies, and kisses her softly, hands cupping her face so gently that she could melt, could just die there in his arms and be perfectly content to do so.

Sneaking him out again is a bit of a task. Belle considers the fire escape, but his leg doesn't like rickety metal stairs, and finally he just smirks at her, grabs his cane, and beckons for her to follow.

The man walks out of their home through the front door, through the shop, and smiles benignly at Mr French on the way past, muttering something about his daughter's good manners.

Belle isn't sure if she's impressed, amused, or furious. She settles for dreamily post-coital and completely in love, and decides to go back to sleep.


End file.
